Raison D'Être
by Zavala
Summary: A story of the helpless genocide of 49 students. 'Reason to Be.' Only the prologue is done right now. The rest of the story is yet to come.
1. Prologue

Raison Detre.

Hour X- Prologue:

The rain poured tumultuously from the skies above, a levitated carpet of ebony, folding clouds, dotted with spots of gray, patterns of white. Streets flooded as copious amounts of rain overflowed the road's rain gutters. Massive puddles formed here and there, with rushing cascades of contradictory crystallized water, swirling with murky mud drawn up from the dirt. A man in his mid 40's, a regular Joe as you might call him, coated with a banana-yellow raincoat skulked through the rain, his hood shadowing his dark features, quietly murmuring to himself as dozens of mechanical goliaths powered their way through the thick coating of water atop the road. The streets were busy today; not for any reason in particular; except for maybe the fact that Spring Break was over and visitors would be returning to their homes, yet a small, isolated town as this would idealistically never have this much traffic come through on a Sunday evening such as this. The town's serene mountain slopes looked grimy and ugly through the vale of mist and falling rain, the trees drooping with the immense downpour. The rain-drenched, busy road snaked throughout the normally picturesque mountains; a route sometimes sought out by sight-seers, and sometimes considered a shortcut if ever someone wanted to cross between the two areas surrounding the little town.

The man continued trudging along the sidewalk, his hands in his pockets, still muttering nonsensically to himself. He gripped whatever was in his pocket; a thick, yet delicate folded object. His bright, welcoming green eyes peered through the shadow of his yellow hood, looking somewhat troubled. The man was obviously distracted; though he had joyful eyes, they seemed to be lost and unfocused. While he was staring only at the ground, he seemed to know exactly where he was going, taking a sharp turn at the crosswalk to continue his treading. The cars continued to stream idly by, the man continued to walk. The rain began to fall even more heavily. The man sped up in accordance with the force of the rain, obviously in some sort of a hurry now.

Finally, he seemed to have reached where he was going. A small house, built against the town's forest of sorts, with the mountains looming overhead was stuck uncomfortably in the ground. Its windows weren't necessarily crooked or broken, but they looked uninviting, the shutters closed, not allowing any light in from outside. The pale yellow color of the house resembled that of a baby's toy, looking juvenile and cute, while at the same time a strange presence seemed to alienate it from the rest of the area. The man finally looked up to admire the house, citing that he had indeed reached his correct destination. He moved up the front walk onto the step, admiring the door in front of him. It was a crimson red. The brass door handle had marks and chips on it, a little stained in the area where the hand would cup it's round shape. Hesitating, he twisted the handle and pushed the door open. The inside of the house was dark, quiet. He stepped slowly inside, again, hesitant, seemingly aware of every aspect of his environment. He closed the door behind him, kicking off his shoes, and slowly unveiling his face by taking off his jacket. His face was dotted with a coarse stubble, his eyes big and a little droopy. His hair was short, combed a little forward, with structured lips, and regular-sized ears. The only odd aspect of him was a few cuts on his face around the eyes and mouth, as well as a misshapen nose. It looked as though it had broken on more than one occasion, unbalanced at the area of his bridge, one side starting earlier than the other from between his eyebrows, and another dent in his septum, with one side of his nose looking bigger than the other. He was a good looking man for his age, with his dual image of the welcoming eyes and face, yet the contrasting image of coarse stubble and rough scars. Hanging his coat up on a hook located ideally to the left of the door, he moved forward. He was wearing a thin sweater with another T-shirt underneath. His sweater read, "Sandsy and Co." with a strange-looking peanut character wearing a blue baseball hat with a silly grin on his face, his arm extended showing the thumbs up, just above the writing. Beneath it in smaller writing was the words 'Supervised by our great Coalition Branch.'

"Looks like you made it in on time," a coarse male voice rippled throughout the bare exterior of the house. His throat shook with every breath, his demeanor hidden by the darkness of the house.

"Did so, Eddy," the raincoat man replied, a slight smirk appearing on his face.

"You brought the document?" The coarse man replied.

"Oh, you know me better than I do, Eddy boy! 'Course I did!" As he said this, the man reached into his pocket taking out an unofficially folded piece of paper wrapped with a tight, skinny elastic band.

"You didn't read it, am I right?" The coarse man again spoke.

"You know I didn't," the raincoat man replied.

"You're a good man, Stephan."

"Anything for the Coalition," the raincoat man raised his right hand in a pompous gesture as he spoke, raising his pinky, middle finger, and extending his thumb as he held it in the air. He slowly lowered it back to his side.

"Alright, let's take a look-see," the coarse man gripped the paper away from Stephan, still hidden in a veil of shadow. He roughly undid the elastic band, opening the paper before his eyes. A clicking sound was heard, and it was seen that the coarse man had a flashlight in his hand, the beam of light detailing the outline of the paper.

"This year's program is gonna be as good a show as always, Ed?" The raincoat man said.

"You know it will be. They picked a good school this year."

"Really? Whereabouts?"

"You'll know soon enough."

"Very well."

"Well… this sheet says it. It's just North of Menmue City… Logiman's Hollow. Ever heard?"

The raincoat man stiffened up immediately, his demeanor changing instantly.

"Ye-… Yeah. I know. Where it is, I mean."

"Good. We're getting this thing underway in two weeks." The coarse man clicked off the flashlight and ordered for the man to take the first bus home he could. "Say, Stephan. Whereabouts you from, anyway?"

The raincoat man hesitated as he stood at the door to leave, staring back at the coarse man. His voice shook, "Nowhere important… heh." He turned slowly through the opened door and left without another word.

The sheet in the man's hand detailed the inevitable extermination of fourty-nine high-school students, all on the year of their graduation. An annual death-sentence, as some people called it. The sheet was outlined as such;

THE PROGRAM

The Federal and Surational laws dictate the appraisal of the annual Program. The Coalition sponsors the tremendous sacrifice of our Young, the hope and dreams of the rest of our people's tomorrow. But, it is necessary, in fact, vital to the survival of our people that this procedure takes place, in that the youth in our nations are troubled, resorting to youth extreme groups, protests, murder, thieving and other such Anti-Coalition attitudes. How can our nation live in a perfect today, only to be troubled by the nervous, foreboding of the overshadowing, uncertain tomorrow? That is why the Program, also known as Exhibition #2315 under the Commissioner XVIII has to be instated annually, to cleanse the troubled youth of today while at the same time providing a basis for the other youth of today. The following details are listed below, exercising rules of the game;

Each student is ordered to kill one another, until only one survives.

The winner is instated with a government pension and is allowed to leave freely from the game.

Only one school annually in each state will participate.

Each student is granted two bottles of water, two pieces of bread, and a random weapon upon their entry into the Game.

Each game shall be televised, and with each Game, new aspects shall be integrated, unawares to anyone but the inner workers within our Coalition: Exhibition # 2315 department.

Each program lasts three days in a publicly disclosed location upon the programs start, not to be unveiled prior to the Program, and each location will be closed off accordingly.

This form is ordered to be delivered to your superior immediately, so that the planning of this game shall occur. This year's school attending the program in the Monmue City Region is Logiman High. 50 students, 25 male and 25 female will be instated into the game in June immediately before their graduation. Each student's presence in this game is mandatory, and any resistance is indeed futile and will be punishable by death.

A jurisdiction instated by the Coalition upon its creation, embodying the whole world. Each law in the Surational laws is enforced more than any, with more weight and when a Surational law is broken, the punishment is immediate death by any Coalition Enforcer.

The Coalition's basic means of infantry and Surational law enforcers.

Logiman's Hollow, a town of merely 12,000, nestled quietly in a mountain valley, dotted with trees and streams inbetween every nook and every cranny, unknowingly allowed the public demise of 49 of their very own up and coming youth. The mayor could only shake his head in disappointment as he learned that his town would be the one hosting this year's Program in the Menmue city region.

He had already bade goodbye to the 49 students whose death would inevitably be met in a matter of three months. The games had already begun.


	2. Hour Zero

Hour Zero- Bliss

A pencil snapped abruptly. The brisk shoulders of a 16-year old boy quivered with the sudden mahogany explosion. The long, ebony-haired head of the boy reared itself from the uncomfortable crest his folded arms made, his ivory sleeves creased from the pressure of his bare forehead resting on his clothed wrists. Rubbing his eyes, of which were drenched with the translucent, purple mixture caused by the waking up at 7:00 AM, 7 hours of school, 3 hours of homework, scolding by his miscreant of an older brother, 2 hours of video games, the occasional slap at the bass, and bed at 12 AM tired so familiar to eleventh grade boys and girls around the globe.

The ethereal assault of the sun's rays rudely trespassed into the boy's wide pupils, causing him to bring up his hand to shield his eyes. 'Geez, someone turn off the sun.' Bathing the rest of the classroom in it's warm, cosmic glow, the sun outside illuminated scrapers resembling metallic thumbs, man's mark on the once serene mountain valleys of Logiman's Hollow seen before the Industrial Outbreak in 2018. The thumbs exhumed black gases, which together gathered in the pale cyan sky above.

His eyes finally adjusted, the boy looked around the rest of the room. He was in class. He had almost forgotten, in fact, that he was supposed to be writing a math test. The rest of his classmates, each to the last one, were decked out in the school's obligatory dress code. The school's colors; red, white, and black, each had to it's own a respective item of clothing worn by the students. White blazers, complete with the Logiman's Hollow High School emblem on the left side of the chest, black pants and shoes, and bright, vivid crimson coating the _wrisleeves_.

Wrisleeves, an item enforced in the _2014 Coalition De-Germination Act, _act as a protective glove, fully extended to the elbow, solely designed to prevent germ contamination. The Act, first instituted in 2014, was created in tandem with the commonplace outbreaks taking place throughout Old West America and the World. Most notably of which, titled by many as simply _The Menmue Water-contamination _occurred in 2009, after a government-experimented chicken decided to take a leisure stroll in Menmue City's Grand Reservoir, sole water distribution facility for all of Menmue City State, largest state in all Old West America. The chicken, having been used to test a new kind of toxic weapon, labeled by the government as C16-Pseudokill, (otherwise scientifically known as _pseudophredamine)_ polluted the whole water system of Menmue City State, killing 80,000. The government, initially blaming the accident on spies working in the laboratories of Menmue, after suffering yet 5 more severe outbreaks with minor ones dotted here and there, instituted the mandatory wear of wrisleeves by all entering public places. How wrisleeves were to protect citizens from contaminated drinking water were a mystery to all(public details of the wrisleeves were forbidden, as were the practice of experimenting with and examinating wrisleeves), but to their surprise, they worked. Not a single outbreak had occurred since the Act was instituted.

The government decided to use animals, typically less aggressive, weaker animals for testing substances, since it was made legal to test any substance on any animal after 2005.

Pseudophredamine, as defined by Menmue City Toxic Substance Library; A compound made from potassium cyanide and ammonia, extremely volatile in that even the slightest breath should induce infection. Also enters the body through skin contact. A crystalline, viscous liquid, acidic to the touch, deep blue in color, odorless. Infection Details: Upon infection, there are no immediate symptoms. The drug is dormant until sleep, in which every vital organ in the body will be exposed to the acidic quality of the substance, due to the body working less during sleep, and the substance's slightest intake causing it to be able to spread throughout the entire bloodstream. Upon the activation of the drug, the human will be painfully awoken with their insides burning from the acid, dying within a few minutes. Used by the Coalition to exterminate their foes, inside out, from use of assassins, and bomb drop which explodes approx. 600 feet above it's target, spreading the liquid in a 300 feet radius.

The boy, looking up at the classroom clock, realized he had 20 minutes to write his math unit test. Quickly scribbling his name into the name box, he began his test. _Curran Rainguard_.

The class ended with barely enough time for Curran to sprawl _x16_ on the last question.

Quickly gathering up his books, Curran sauntered out of the classroom into the thin, cramped hallway outside. White ceiling, floors, and crimson lockers cascaded by as Curran proceeded to the cafeteria.

As a particularly large group of 10th graders shuffled past Curran, a shoulder slammed into his, causing his body to cock awkwardly around, toward the source of the abrupt shove. His eyes met the gaze of Sid Algar, his crimson hair gelled this way and that, azure irises staring into the emerald of Curran's. "Watch it, faggot," Sid spat loudly. The cold, cerulean eyes froze Curran's gaze, the two taking in each other's appearance, though this ritual pattern of rival in-school hierarchy was effectively destroyed due to the presence of identical school uniforms, aside from Sid's slightly botched and creased demeanor and rolled up sleeves. Curran spat on the ground in response, twitching his cheek cockily. Sid smirked, averted his gaze from Curran's and ambled arrogantly down the hallway.

Scoffing, Curran muttered under his breath, "Prick."

Currain Rainguard was an average student. While he excelled in Math and English, he struggled with World History, Chemical Studies, and he was merely scraping by in Biological Studies and Physics. Having given up on all subjects save English, and confident in his own ability to coast with ease through Mathematics, Currain aspired to be a writer when he grew up, either a novelist or for some sort of magazine. Grade 11 being the final grade for Americans, Curran was looking forward to getting out of high school and into social independence. He currently lived with his two brothers; one older, Greer, who was nineteen and had a penchant for looking out for Curran, and the younger, Kesler, being fourteen years old, juvenile, and ignorant. There was also Curran's older sister, at twenty-four years old, whom Curran had never met. He knew barely anything about her. When he was younger, he had asked his parents about her, but the only reply he had ever received was, "She's no business of yours." The only thing Curran knew was her age, which Greer knew, leading Curran to believe he had at one point known her.

Curran's parents, his father, a writer, and his mother, a philanthropist, worked hard on raising Curran to be just, loyal, and honest. However, since their "retrieval" by some surational officers four years ago, Curran has become much more cocky and pessimistic, and at any stretch, bitter.

He had long, black hair down to the back of his neck, untidily rag-tagged upon his emergence from the shower in the morning. Though looking as though it were untidy and dirty, Curran took pride in his hair, making a point of using the correct amounts of shampoo and conditioner to provide the ultimate experience in soft hair. He had wide, but sharp blue eyes, his eyebrows above spanning a regular length, ebony like his hair. His nose was long, beginning in between his eyes and ending a short distance from his mouth. His ears were hidden amongst the black of his hair, though his lobes occasionally stuck out if they were lucky enough to be granted sunlight after his random dry. His lips were well-formed, his teeth underneath a bright white, well-kempt for Curran was not one to maintain a negative image. Not necessarily popular by any means, Curran was known to be a good guy most of the time, but when angered was cutting and blunt. He had a close group of friends which were commonly known throughout Logiman's Hollow for being troublemakers but at the same time good kids to be around.

Before the death of Curran's parents, he was by no means the same boy he was now. His parents, typically seen at anti-government rallies so commonly held throughout the better part of two decades, were seized by surational officers following circumstances that had gotten the better of Curran. In retrospect, Curran realizes the absurdity of the reason of their lock-up; "_Failed to acknowledge Menmue City Municipality Freedom Regulations in 1. Disorderly conduct in city streets. 2. Blocking traffic."_ Nothing further was written on the letter which had come seven days after the seizure of his parents; the six days prior (they had left the three boys after telling them they were leaving for another rally) Curran, Greer, and Kesler had been waiting impatiently at home. Normally, the rallies they attended lasted up to only three days, but when Greer had told his younger brothers of the abrupt end of the rally resulting in electroshock batons and paralysis gas, the three had become nervous. No sign of their parents had appeared anywhere, no word from friends so as to warn them of their parent's fate. The letter, received when Curran found the letter waiting on the doorstep after being shoved through the mail slip, inevitably proved to shatter the bond between the three boys, instituting a sort of independent rivalry, each one refusing to live off of the other. Greer, who worked many hours as a bartender in a shabby joint in Menmue called the Castle Rock, was the sole income for the three boys, and at any rate, Curran was seen as poor. Wearing his school uniform after hours, struggling to find clean clothes, he was frustrated. Frustrated with the repetitive get-up-to-be-pushed-down-again cycle he was so used to living with. Every time Greer seemed to get a break at the Castle Rock, the boys would find out later that his boss had trouble with his cheque and they'd have to wait another week or two. No relatives had lent a single hand to Greer, nor had friends of their parents, as the family had been pushed away for their anti-government ways. Common knowledge was that if you were against the Coalition, you were gonna get locked up. While Greer tried hard to sustain his brothers and himself, he, too, was frustrated like Curran. Kesler on the other hand was immature about the whole situation, always asking for more. Fights between Curran and Kesler were common, as Kesler typically got under Curran's skin. Curran was bottled up; as much as he was quiet and restrictive at school, and easy-going with his friends, on the inside he was quite actually livid. Many a punched-hole in his wall revealed such.

Curran continued to proceed down the halls, absent-mindedly sauntering towards the cafeteria. As he walked, he nonchalantly evaluated passers-by; 'Asshole, faggot, okay, asshole, dickhead, cool guy, oh, hey Daemyn, asshole, retard, fuckin' ugly chick.'

The redundant murmur of school students filled the air as Curran entered the cafeteria, full of students at Logiman's Hollow High School. 'I know there are too many people here, why do they have to make so much g'damn noise?'

Curran searched for his group of friends amongst the denizens of chatty students, but to no avail. Wondering where his friends were, that's when he realized his friend Daemyn had been going the opposite way as he. Where to, Curran had absolutely no idea, but the member-of-the-flock instinct kicked in as Curran turned himself around to proceed to the opposite way.

Now this time shoveling past students, Curran began to attempt to catch up with Daemyn. Curran laughed as he bowled over some midget kid in front of him. Sensivity wasn't always his specialty, but he prided himself in being a A-grade asshole to anyone who deserved it. Infuriating to Curran was the essence of someone walking slowly in front of him.

After shoveling his way through a substantial worm of students (how many kids even GO to this school?) Curran reached the western doors where Daemyn seemed to be headed. Sure enough, a large, empowering bus stood outside, surrounded by other Eleventh Grade students, adorned in their uniforms, excitedly chatting, sleeping underneath the shade of the hanging tree outside the western exit, or bashfully exchanging glances with the object of their affection.

'That's right…' Curran thought. 'Today was the field trip!'


End file.
